


Across the Golden Hills

by Laylah



Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: Action/Adventure, Backstory, Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-14
Updated: 2009-11-14
Packaged: 2017-10-02 18:20:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/pseuds/Laylah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If he's been waiting for a cue, this is it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Across the Golden Hills

News travels fast, through the judicers' quarter. Ffamran is cloistered in the law library, pretending to study penal codes and actually reading the latest installment of his favorite five-gil serial, when somebody at the desk tells someone else:

"You hear about the pirate that Nirral brought in this morning? _Viera_, she was." The airship battle in the story fades from Ffamran's mind as quickly as parchment blackens in a fire; he doesn't look up, but he listens. "Broke some bones on the way in, too, let me tell you! Bitch has a kick like you wouldn't believe. They had to Disable her to get her into the cell."

"Too bad it weren't Drace that picked her up," the other judge says. "I'd pay good money to see _that_ fight, whoever came out on top."

Both of them laugh, and Ffamran stops listening. A sky pirate -- a _viera_ sky pirate -- captured alive and in custody here in Archades. He feels giddy. The words on the page in front of him blur, no longer immediate enough to hold his imagination.

There's a festival this weekend to celebrate the birthday of Lord Larsa Ferrinas Solidor. There's an experimental airship from the YPA waiting in the guild hangar for technicians to have time to dismantle it. There's a viera sky pirate in their dungeon, not yet shipped north to one of the prison camps.

If he's been waiting for a cue, this is it.

* *

The heroes in adventure novels are always being thrust into their quests unprepared and without warning. Ffamran can see no reason to handicap himself similarly.

Most of his things are still in his father's house, but he has a few baubles that he can stand to part with; he takes advantage of the festival half-holiday to bring those down to the edge of Old Archades and sell them to a shady-looking seeq fellow for less than they're actually worth. The seeq asks no questions, though, and probably isn't the sort of source that Ffamran's cohort are likely to turn to until his information is already sorely out of date.

Finances secured, Ffamran returns to his quarters and dresses: first, an outfit sufficiently bold so as not to seem out of place at the festivities, and second, his armor, so as not to seem out of place at the prison. He holds off on the helm until the last moment -- the damn thing always makes him feel claustrophobic, despite the fact that he can and usually does raise the buffe whenever he is not actively engaged in combat. The closed helms of the Magisters must be absolutely horrific. And yet if he stays here, he seems destined for one, whether due to his father's increasing influence on the politicians, or the politicians increasing need to influence his father.

But he is _not_ staying here, and the Magister's ornate prison will not be his.

* *

Almost the entire respectable population of Archades has gathered in Molberry for the festivities, and the local detachment of the judiciary are among that number. The barracks is as near to deserted as Ffamran has ever seen, and the guard on duty at the entry to the little prison wing looks bored out of his mind. It almost seems a waste of a good Sleep spell.

Not quite, though. Ffamran wouldn't want to give his compatriots any more clues to piece together than he absolutely has to. He gathers the magick to himself, just as he learned it, and pushes outward, watching the guard's head loll forward as it hits. Really, men on this sort of duty should be better warded against such things.

Already this feels like an adventure. Ffamran lifts the key ring from the table beside the sleeping guard, and lets himself into the cells. There's nobody else in the prison -- they had a few poor bastards here until recently, but those have been sent down to the arena for the tournament that will be tomorrow's main event. Probably the viera would be sent, too, if she remained here long enough for someone to give the order.

She's sitting in the last cell on the left, her back to the wall, her knees drawn up and her feet -- in their wickedly pointed heels -- braced against the stone with no care for her modesty at all. Her elbows rest on her knees, and a heavy set of shackles trap her wrists. Most of the viera that Ffamran has seen in the market or the aerodrome wear white, or pale colors, to match their hair, but this one wears black, accented with a collection of delicate braces and a metalwork cap that holds at bay the long mane of her hair.

Ffamran meets her eyes, and realizes he's been staring for longer than he intended to. He clears his throat. "Good afternoon," he says. "I -- I doubt you're enjoying your stay here, and I can't say I blame you." She doesn't answer, which he supposes he should have expected. "I have a proposition to make, though, if you're interested." She blinks once, very slowly, but otherwise makes no response. Ffamran smiles, trying to project more confidence than he feels. "Cat got your tongue?"

The viera tilts her head back, enough for him to see the glint of red around her throat: not only is she shackled, but she's been left in a Disabling collar. Ffamran cringes without meaning to.

"Right. I see. I'm sorry. I'm -- I'll ask you a few yes-or-no questions, then, and hopefully we can move on rather quickly. You can move enough to nod or shake your head, yes?"

The viera nods once, at the deliberate speed the magick will allow.

Ffamran nods as well. "Excellent," he says. "So. They said you were a sky pirate. Can you pilot an airship?"

There's a pause that Ffamran would like to think is thoughtful rather than condescending, and then the viera does nod again. Why would that question --

"Ah. I'm sorry. That wasn't specific enough, was it? Can you pilot a falcon-class six-ring fighter?"

The viera's mouth curves a little in what might be a smile, and she nods more readily this time.

Ffamran smiles back at her. "Wonderful. I know where we can get one, you see." He pauses, trying to phrase his offer as well as he can. "If I'm willing to take you there and help you get on that ship, will you strike a bargain with me?" He catches the slip himself that time, at least. "A bargain that doesn't involve me touching you, I mean. Except to relieve you of those new Archadian accessories which, I think you'll agree, don't really suit you anyway."

He's fairly certain she's trying to smile this time, and she definitely nods.

"Good," Ffamran says. "Excellent." He's repeating himself; he sounds an ass. Time now to stop talking, and start acting. He fumbles with the key ring and unlocks the door to her cell.

The viera rises to her feet as Ffamran steps into the cell with her, and he's surprised to realize how tall she is; he's taller than a good half his squad, but he has to look up to meet the viera's strange copper eyes, and her long ears make it seem as though she towers over him. He swallows hard.

"All right," he says. "If you'll just -- hold still for a moment, I'll get that collar off you." She bares her throat and stands still, waiting. His hands are clumsy in his gauntlets, but he manages, after two false starts, to get the clasp undone. The collar slides free, the weight of its own beads and stones pulling it down and away from her neck.

Ffamran's shoulders hit the wall with a crash of steel on stone, the viera's shackles pressed across his throat. He should never have removed his helm. He's too vulnerable like this. He can reach her, but not with near enough force to push her back. If he kicks --

She sidesteps, but it distracts her, enough for Ffamran to get hold of her arms and push, so she staggers back, so he can get away from the wall -- and he sees the kick coming, impossibly high, not quite soon enough to dodge completely. She catches him on the shoulder, knocking him off-balance, but he grabs her leg as he falls, dragging her down with him. They roll, struggling, and his weight _should_ be an advantage, but somehow isn't -- she's stronger than she looks, and there's a faint red haze gathering around her that he doesn't dare provoke -- but when he stops fighting for an instant she pins him, her weight solid on his stomach, her shackles again at his throat.

"I'm not your enemy," Ffamran rasps, pressing up on the shackles with both hands, fighting for air. "I know it may seem unlikely, but -- give me a chance to prove myself, at least."

"What is it you bargain for, hume?" the viera asks. Her voice is softer than her actions would lead him to expect, and her accent is like none he's ever heard before.

"Escape," Ffamran says. "For both of us."

The viera sits back, and the pressure at his throat eases slightly. "I would not expect a judge to wish such a thing," she says.

Ffamran tries to smile. "Not all of us are volunteers," he says. It's far from a complete answer, but it's true as far as it goes, and he wouldn't want to give a sky pirate the idea that he might be worth something.

"Escape," the viera says. "You want me to help you out of Archades."

"Out of Archadia," Ffamran counters. "I don't want to go into hiding in some petty outlying village and get conscripted over again when the next war comes."

The viera nods. "And you have an airship?"

"Access to one," Ffamran says. "She's fast. I saw her test flights."

"It is a better offer than the arena," the viera says, and sits back a bit further so she can lift the shackles away from his neck entirely. "Take these off."

Ffamran reaches for the catch on the far side. "Not going to hit me again, are you?"

The viera smiles faintly. "Not unless you do something stupid," she says.

"Well, those sound like fair odds," Ffamran says. He pushes the release switch, and the shackles swing open so the viera can pull free.

"I hate those things," she says, rubbing at her wrists as she stands up. "Where do you keep weapons seized from prisoners?"

"We'll get them on the way out," Ffamran promises. He feels graceless, climbing to his feet in his armor beside her. "What's your name?"

The viera looks down at him. "Fran," she says, and turns to go.

"This way," Ffamran says, stepping out of the cell with her. "You haven't asked mine."

"No," Fran says. "I have not."

* *

They leave his armor in the prison repository, buried under a pile of rags and illicit trade goods. It'll be found, certainly, but the delay might be some small help. Fran recovers her bow and quiver, and a small pouch of supplies; Ffamran helps himself to some hapless prisoner's short-barreled rifle. He's a fair shot, and he'd as soon leave his sword behind.

Crossing the courtyard out of the judicers' quarter is nerve-wracking, but they manage, and in Nilbasse Ffamran slows to an arrogant stroll. "What are you doing?" Fran demands.

"Not drawing attention," Ffamran says. "Take your time. Sightsee a bit."

"I am not exactly inconspicuous," Fran points out, but she slows from her purposeful stride into an elegant, swaying walk that is no less intimidating, but perhaps at least less like a fugitive.

Like a predator, Ffamran thinks. She moves like she knows she could tear the throat out of any gentleman foolish enough to approach her. The thought sends a shiver down his spine that isn't entirely unpleasant. "The ship we're taking," he says, gesturing ahead of them as though he's pointing out the hanging bridges of Tsenoble, "was a prototype fighter built to an Imperial order. The military wound up preferring Draklor's design, which carries heavier arms, but I personally think it was a waste; the YPA model has the potential for much better maneuverability, with a few tweaks to her engine."

"You're an airship engineer, as well as a judge?" Fran asks. She takes hold of his arm, imitating the ladies and gentlemen they pass, and her claws catch in the linen of his sleeve.

"My father and I were discussing airship schematics over supper by the time I was nine years old," Ffamran says, and bites his tongue too late. He smiles, tries to brush it off. "There are many things I'd sooner call myself than a judge."

"So I see." She lets him lead her through most of Nilbasse, to the side street that leads to the pathway down, out of the socialites' demesne and into the manufacturing quarter. He moves more purposefully here, passing seeq and bangaa factory workers and praying that none of them call his bluff as he walks straight into streets where he has no legitimate business. Fran keeps pace with him easily, her long legs making it seem as though she's not even in a hurry.

At the door to the guild's hangar, Ffamran pauses. "Hang back, in here," he says. "I'm going to try to talk the moogle into leaving, if I can."

Fran looks at him as though she's thinking of hitting him again to try to knock some sense into him. "With _what_?" she says.

"The best Archadian currency there is," Ffamran says. "Information."

She still doesn't look convinced, but she waits in the hallway while he strolls out into the main bay of the hangar.

The moogle on duty looks up from the clockwork he's been tinkering with, and squeaks in surprise. "Ffamran! What brings you here, kupo?"

Ffamran smiles. "Moro," he says. "Just the moogle I wanted to see. Couldn't help wanting to come spend a little time with your masterpiece here before she's torn down." He goes down on one knee, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Can I talk you into first salvage rights, for old times' sake?"

Moro shifts from foot to foot doubtfully. "I shouldn't," he says. "Client gets the salvage, kupo."

"You and I both know what a waste that is," Ffamran says. "Ghis will have them pull the glossair rings and melt the rest for scrap metal. Let me get some of her communications gear, at least? I'll make you a good trade."

"Kuu-po?" Moro's nose twitches. There's something unreasonably charming about a moogle trying to look shifty.

Ffamran grins. "Here, hand me a pen and paper." His hand is steady as he draws; he's always had a good head for diagrams, and he and his father argued over this one for a good two hours the last time he had dinner at home.

Moro whistles as the schematic takes shape, the compact design, the arrays of heavy guns. It's an ugly little fighter, but it'll get the job done.

Ffamran blows on the paper to dry it, and holds it up. "This is what you're up against for the transports' defender fleet," he says. "You can _have_ this, on the condition that you take your khafi break now, and go peruse it in the cafe for the next half hour while I get what I came here for."

"While you steal from our ship," Moro says.

In a manner of speaking, Ffamran thinks. "Your _condemned_ ship," he says. "Think of it as saving what you can of her, while improving the odds of her successor."

Moro heaves a sigh. "I should not, kupo." He reaches for the page. "But it's true, she deserves better than scrap. Half an hour, kupo! No more!"

"You're a prince among moogles," Ffamran says, offering Moro a little bow. His heart is pounding; he can feel excitement sharpening his senses.

Moro toddles out the far door, rolled-up plans tucked under his arm, and Ffamran looks back toward where he came in.

"Fran?" he calls.

She steps out of the shadows, her heels clicking against the hard floor. "Someone you know is well-placed at Draklor," she says. "Your father, perhaps?"

"Heard some of that, did you?" Ffamran asks.

Fran stares at him steadily; one of her ears twitches.

"Right," he says. Of course. He's going to have to get more used to the idea of considering other races' capabilities, if he's going to leave Archades. "Then you heard we don't have too much time. The locking mechanism to open the hangar is along the wall, there. I'll start warming up her engines." He turns, and starts for the airship's hatch.

"No," Fran says. Ffamran looks back at her. "You unlock the hangar. I will start the ship." There's a moment of tense quiet, as they stare at each other, and Ffamran wonders how either of them can possibly trust the other. "I have a debt of honor to you, for the prison," Fran says. "I will not leave you here."

The hair stands up on the back of Ffamran's neck. He imagines he can _feel_ how important this decision is. "All right," he says at last.

Fran nods, and walks past him, already focused on the ship. Ffamran wipes his hands on his trousers and turns his attention to the lock.

It's a well-made mechanism, like most mooglecraft -- jamming it so it _won't_ open would be easy enough, but opening it without the key is going to take work. The lock has to be treated carefully, finessed with stiff wires -- his eyes closed so he can concentrate -- before it will yield. Behind him, the airship's engine hums to life as the first tumbler clicks into place. Ffamran licks his lips, twists the wire carefully as the hot wind displaced by the engine washes over him. The second tumbler yields. He dares a look back over his shoulder. Fran has left the hatch open for him. His palms are sweating, and he prays he won't break the wire now. One more, he thinks. One more tumbler, right -- _there_, click and the lock opens in his hand, sliding back to free the lever that will open the roof.

Ffamran pulls, and the lever slides down smoothly, gears and counterweights creaking as the hangar starts to open above them. He'll deny it later, but he panics for a moment just then bolting across the hangar floor half-certain that the viera will abandon him.

But the airship's hatch doesn't start to close until he's on board, and Fran even gives him time to sit down -- in the co-pilot's seat, he notes -- before she nudges the stick to give them some lift.

"She is a thing of beauty," Fran says.

Ffamran feels an irrational little surge of pride. "Isn't she? Open her up. Give her a chance to really fly."

Fran looks over at him. "We should be careful," she says, piloting their prize through Archades's civilian airspace. "We do not wish to attract the patrols' attention."

"We won't," Ffamran says. "Not if we move fast." He leans forward, and presses a button on the instrument panel. "Go now."

"What did you do?" Fran asks, as the ship hums around them. She aims for the clear space between two buildings, and their speed increases.

"It casts Vanish," Ffamran says. He catches himself stroking the arm of his chair, and stops. He can imagine how his father would laugh, to see him petting an airship like a prize chocobo. Too sentimental by half. "It won't last, though, so take advantage now."

Fran smiles. "Hold on tight."

* *

Out in the open sky, the ship outperforms her test flights, fast and true, quick to respond to the first touch of the stick. She soars with a speed and elegance that outpaces the commercial liners as cleanly as a Tchita racer outperforms a farmer's plow-bird. Below them, the windmills of Cerobi turn, and the shadows of clouds shift across the wide hills. Ffamran feels giddy, lightheaded. He's _gone_, Archades a vanishing smudge on the horizon behind and all of Ivalice before him.

He looks over a Fran, watches her watch the landscape as she holds their course. "We should bear south soon, shouldn't we?" he asks. "Bhujerba's the nearest free city, this far east."

Fran shakes her head. "We do not make for Bhujerba," she says. "Our course is set for Balfonheim."

"Balfonheim?" Ffamran repeats. "But that's Archadian."

"You've never been there," Fran observes.

"No," Ffamran admits. "I wouldn't say something so foolish if I had, is that it?"

"I think," Fran says, "that a young man who would arrange for his own kidnapping by pirates might find Balfonheim to his liking."

Ffamran raises an eyebrow. "This was hardly a kidnapping," he says. "And if you're hoping for a ransom, I fear you'll be sorely disappointed."

"A pity," Fran says, her tone so dry that Ffamran can't tell if she's joking. "I know a bangaa team who would be quite plausible thugs."

Ffamran tries to picture himself sending urgent communications to Draklor, asking his father to ransom him before a crew of bangaa pirates does something terrible. His laughter sounds more forced than he might like. "So sorry I couldn't be more assistance."

Fran smiles for a moment, and that puts his mind somehow at ease. She lowers their altitude slightly, so their shadow swoops across the golden hills and the charibterices below them scatter as they pass. "We draw near to Balfonheim," she says, and when Ffamran squints he thinks he can see it, a dark blot against the shimmering line of the sea in the distance. "Have you chosen names for your ship and yourself?"

"The _Strahl_," Ffamran says automatically. It's the name of the hero's ship in _The Crown of Rozarria_, and he's loved every issue of that he's read for the last three years. "She'll be the _Strahl_."

"Good," Fran says. The dark shape ahead of them approaches quickly; Ffamran thinks he can make out a lighthouse, at one edge of the town. "And you?"

He'll be starting his pirate career in Balfonheim, will he? "Balthier," he says. Fran doesn't respond, but he doubts she's studied enough Archadian history to know the word for what it is -- a name for a culture, not a man, the name for the raiders who made Balfonheim famous, back in the dark age before trade and piracy alike took to the skies. They're a footnote in the history of the empire now, but an interesting one, and the name will serve.

Fran reaches for the radio handset on the panel, and hands it to him. The silhouette of the port city is becoming clear, lower and more sprawling than Archades, white sails dotting the blue water of the harbor. "We come into hailing range," she says. "They will ask us to declare ourselves soon."

"Even in a pirate city?" Ffamran asks.

"Especially so," Fran says. She slows them down, and Ffamran flips on the radio receiver.

For a moment there is only the crackling static of an open channel, and then a woman's crisp voice: "Unknown falcon approaching from the west, please identify yourself."

His heart beats harder than it should, and his mouth feels dry as he lifts the handset. "Balthier, of no allegiance," he says. "Flying the _Strahl_."

"Have you business in Balfonheim?" the port controller asks.

"Repairs to my ship," Ffamran says.

"And hunting," Fran adds quietly.

Ffamran switches the handset back on. "And my partner seeks a mark."

Fran looks over at him, eyebrow raised. But she says nothing, before the radio crackles to life again: "Balthier of the _Strahl_, you are cleared to land in bay six."

"Bay six," Ffamran repeats into the radio. "Thank you." He puts the handset down, and looks at Fran. "Shall we?"

"Of course," Fran says, and this time he _can_ hear the amusement in her voice. "Partner."

The curtain rises for act two, he thinks. Enter sky pirate Balthier.


End file.
